But he didn’t smile. Brian never smiled anymore. Writing happy songs about sad circumstances, that was his calling. That was his Smile.

He tapped some of the powder onto the dull mahogany surface next to the discards of his existence: a pen, a scrawled in dog-eared notebook, a half smoked roach, chunky black glasses & a crumpled pack of smokes.

“Though life would still go on believe me”

Using a returned post card hehad sent to her, the sun glistening over the Pacific with palm trees and surfers enjoying their summer break, he pushed the powder into two little parallel rows of mountains sides…snowy mountains to fuel the hells of the summer heat.

A lone bead of sweat made its way down the king’s temple, kissing the side of his face.

“Laissez les enculés manger du gateau…”

A rolled up Ulysses S. Grant note, his head bowed over the piano, he inhaled the first line loudly, quickly catching his crown as it started to slide of his bent head.

“The world could show nothing to me”

Finding & finishing off a glass of water to wash away the battery acid draining down the back of his throat, Brian walked into the kitchen and stood at the sink, staring into his reflection of the faucet.

The chunky black glasses he’d just shoved back onto his ever increasing full face from his ever increasing indulging, round gold medieval crown suited for the king of dark ages England resting awkwardly on his messy mop of sandy blond hair, a long red velvet Santa Clause cape with white fleece lining falling from his shoulders, and a deep deep sadness.

Another bead of sweat, this time mingled with a single tear fell down his cheek, the color of aquamarine birthstones.

“So what good would living do me?”

Brian turned away from his image, still humming the Ronettes’ cherry on top as he found the abandoned second line and quickly snorted it off the piano and stifled a sneeze, grabbing a cigarette from the mess that was his beach front home and put the Camel between his lips, groping for a lighter and finally after the flame touched the exposed tobacco, he watched the tendrils of smoke march their death march to the ceiling, the end of the cigarette red and lit like Christmas lights on a tree.

Brian rather liked Christmas.

Christmas in July.

He smiled a Mona Lisa smile, the first time his lips had curled up in what felt like months.

“Un de plus, un de plus, juste un de plus….”

Taking drags off the cigarette, he reached for the Beach Boys magazine interview, quickly shoved more white powder up into his sticky grey matter and took a swig of clear liquid, stale vodka but liquid in close range.

Brian kept on smiling, sat at the dilapidated piano seat and started plunking on the stained ivory and black keys again, the Ronettes out of mind, replaced by the grand symphony growing & solidifying in his head.

He finished the cigarette, stabbed the butt out in the overflowing ashtray & started singing as his fingers worked their magical royalty.